


All the Warmth We Were

by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee



Series: Educational Experiences (college AU) [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Keith and Shiro are Siblings, M/M, Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), keith and allura friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 10:05:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10717266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee/pseuds/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee
Summary: To: Shi-BroIf I dieIn this frozen tundra hellscapeTo: KeithYou mean your dorm room?The heat is broken in Keith's dorm room, there's a giant spider in Lance's. Two problems somehow make a solution. (Keith's POV of 'And If You Like to Rest Awhile')





	All the Warmth We Were

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you everyone who commented on 'And If You Like to Rest Awhile'!!! Your support is literally why this here fic happened so please know I appreciate you. :) 
> 
> Also, I've gotten a lot of questions about what time zone I live in? I live in the Pacific Northwest, I just write at night because that's when I have time and what even is sleep? 
> 
> And here it is, by popular demand, Keith's POV of 'And If You Like to Rest Awhile'.

**All the Warmth We Were**

**To: Shi-Bro**

Shiro

Shiro

Shiro

Shiro I’m cold

Shiro

**To: Keith**

I know you’re cold

I’ve sent the maintenance request form

They’re getting to it

**To: Shi-Bro**

If I die

In this frozen tundra hellscape

**To: Keith**

You mean your dorm room?

**To: Shi-Bro**

You do NOT get ANYTHING

You are OUT of the will

You will have to pry my worldly possessions

OUT OF MY COLD FROZEN HANDS

**To: Keith**

So I’m sensing a lot of rage right now

**To: Shi-Bro**

RAGE IS ALL I CAN FEEL

EVERYTHING ELSE IS FUCKING NUMB

**To: Keith**

*Linkin Park plays softly in the background*

**To: Shi-Bro**

WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER

WORST BROTHER

WORST RA

WORST

UGH

**To: Keith**

Wear the hat and mittens I made you!

**To: Shi-Bro**

You mean the hat and mittens

MATT made me?

**To: Keith**

I helped

**To: Shi-Bro**

You picked clashing colors

Because Matt’s an enabler and won’t stop you

I look like a fiber art vomit when I wear them

**To: Keith**

#noregrets

**To: Shi-Bro**

WORST

**To: Keith**

Are you wearing the hat yet?

What about the mittens?  
I hear it’s very cold in your room

**To: Shi-Bro**

WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?

**To: Keith**

Hey, just be glad

I sent the maintenance form

I’m not even your RA

**To: Shi-Bro**

SIGH

Thank you Shiro

I appreciate your sacrifice

Of five minutes out of your day

To send a form

That I can’t

Because I’m not a fucking RA

You are clearly a god among men

How will I ever repay this great debt of mine?

Alas

I am not worthy

**To: Keith**

See, you mean sarcasm

But all I read is earnest brotherly gratitude and love

So we’re all winners here

<3

**To: Shi-Bro**

I want out of this family

**To: Keith**

Too late

:)

…

            Keith sighs, kicks his heater one more time for good measure and shrugs deeper into the maroon hoodie he stole from his brother’s room and hasn’t returned for three weeks. Shiro hasn’t complained, so either he hasn’t noticed or has decided to allow it because he’s trying to be nurturing-but-not-overbearing. Too late, Shiro regularly texts Keith dumb gifs to remind him to do basic things like eat and sleep. Which, Keith would like to point out; he does just fine remembering to do on his own, dammit.

            Mostly.

            Occasionally.

            Shut up, Shiro.

            Keith sighs and snuggles even deeper into the hoodie. It’s raining outside, he can her the crack of droplets against his windowpane and the gurgle of water tumbling down the gutter. A brief glance at the weather app on his phone reveals it’s a balmy 33 degrees Fahrenheit out there. Yay, tis the season for freezing rain.

            It feels negative twenty in here, but that could just be Keith.

            He shoots another glance at the thermostat. It’s turned all the way up, as high as it can go and doing exactly nothing. After a long moment he sighs and just turns it off. Standing in the middle of his (frigid) room, wearing three pairs of socks, fuzzy red plaid pajama pants and two shirts underneath the too-big sweatshirt he finally caves and pulls on the mitten monstrosities. And the hat. He flicks the sweatshirt hood on over the hat and feels extremely ridiculous.

            Sighing, he climbs back into bed, shuffle-scrunches under his quilt and calls Allura.

            She picks up on the first ring, her beautiful face heavily pixelated by the Skype call but still smiling. She opens her mouth to say something, pauses, fully registers his appearance and chokes on a laugh. _“What in the name of sanity do you have on your head?”_

            “Seriously? Dr. Who references?”

            _“They’re even funnier since I’m British,”_ she giggles and Keith wonders if she’s entirely sober.

            “Are you drinking on a Sunday night?” he asks suspiciously.

            _“What on earth would make you think that, love?”_ she tries to say with a straight face but just gives in to another wave of giggles.

            “The giggling, definitely the giggling,” he says flatly.

            _“What, I can’t be fun?”_ she pouts, _“I will have you know that I can so be very fun, Keith.”_

“I know that, Allura,” he replies patiently.

            _“And any, any…pompous_ dingbat _who says otherwise is just…just a pompous dingbat who wouldn’t know fun if it bit him in the arse!”_

            Oh boy. “Having fun at the family reunion, then?” Keith asks lightly.

            _“No,”_ she says sourly, _“And it’s a funeral. For my horrid great uncle Zarkon. There’s already been one screaming match about the will, my cousin Lotor is the absolute_ worst _and if Aunt Haggar makes one more nasty comment about Coran I think my father is going to slap her. My father’s never slapped anyone in his life. I don’t think he knows how!”_

            Keith nods sagely, “I see you’re reconsidering Shiro and I’s offer to join us in Dickensian orphanhood.”

            Allura huffs, _“Sorry, darling, I’m just in a mood. Having to play nice with all these relatives who’ve been so terrible to Dad is making me nasty.”_

“The bottle of pink wine you’re clutching may also have something to do with it,” Keith suggests, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Aside from Shiro, Allura is probably his best friend in the world. He wishes she were here. Partially because she could probably beat his heater into submission through sheer brute strength and partially because she looks like she needs a hug or at least a comforting back-pat and a few well-placed ‘there-there’s’.

            _“True,”_ she hums acknowledgement, _“So, why are you calling?”_

            “My heater’s broken and I’m cold and needed someone to complain to.”

            _“Well I’m – ”_ she begins but somewhere behind her a crash is heard and she’s twisting around to glance its way, _“Oh, damn it all to hell, Lotor’s started a fight. I really must go, I’m sorry about your heater.”_

            “It’s okay,” Keith reassures her with a sigh, “Go make sure your family doesn’t destroy itself.”

            And with that the screen goes dark.

            Well fuck.

…

            A few hours later finds Keith, exhausted, cranky, and befuddled, slouched in the hallway opposite his door. He can’t sleep in his room, it’s too damn cold and has been too damn cold for too damn long. He thinks his bones are frozen.

            He’s dozing, sitting beside Lance-or-Rolo’s door (he doesn’t know which is which, he just knows the cutesy nametags their RA pinned to the door and he’s too chicken to ask the room’s occupants who is who because one is part human, part mobile weed fume cloud, and one is intimidatingly gorgeous and Keith is a weak, socially anxious man). Keith is still wearing Shiro and Matt’s knitwear because, well, eye-searing color combinations aside, the yarn is exceptionally warm and soft.

            Keith’s half-asleep, half-dreaming, letting his mind drift. Maybe he can just doze off here in the hall. Get a few hours of sleep before morning. It’s better than his freezing dorm room.

            He’s thinking about sounds at the moment, how letters roll together to make words and sentences and how meaning clings to them like lint to felt. His brain is curling around the names on the door next to him. _Lance…Rolo…Lance._ He’s wondering which is which. He thinks Rolo is probably the stoner. He’s 60% sure at least. In a fair world where names always went to their proper owners, the stoner would be Rolo. Rolo has those round, rolling sounds to it, it sounds laid-back. It sounds like a dude with stringy hair and a permanent slouch, wearing a beanie and walking with his hands shoved in his pockets. Going somewhere without ever getting there.

            But Lance. Lance sounds like a fish in the water, Keith’s tired brain decides. Lance sounds like something bright and darting that carves through the ocean/river/lake/stream like the water is nothing. Lance is a flash of bright scales under water as it ripples, catching and throwing back the sun. Lance sounds like a guy with warm brown skin and dancing eyes who always waves to him when they pass each other in the hall even though Keith never waves back (he can never decide if he’s supposed to or should or wants to before maybe-Lance is already gone).

            Keith is mostly-asleep really, soothed by thoughts of fish cutting their way upstream, scales flashing in the sunlight when a half-dreamed shout rings in his ears and a warm body comes toppling-crashing-falling over his.

…

“Oh my _god_. _Ow._ ”

            “What the fuck?” Keith is staring at the boy sprawled across the carpet beside him, the boy who was not there a minute ago. It’s maybe-Lance and Keith’s exhaustion-addled brain is wondering if he somehow managed to conjure his presence using thoughts alone.  

            “Uh, hi? Sorry about that?” maybe-Lance smiles sheepishly, squirming into a quasi-seated position.

            Keith can only stare at him. He’s here. Somehow through thinking _really_ hard about him, maybe-Lance is here.

            “Hi, the name’s Lance,” Keith’s literal dream-boy babbles, “I swear I don’t normally kick people in the face while running screaming in the middle of the night, what’s your name?”

            He doesn’t know Keith’s name. Keith has failed as a human being. His brain isn’t working though, he’s stuck staring at definitely-Lance and trying to make words work. He’s too tired for this shit. Finally he realizes that a response is definitely past due and manages, “You’re wearing pajama pants with cartoon sharks on them and a hot pink tank top,” and promptly wants to smack himself in the face. Repeatedly. With a wall.

            “Uh, yeah? Don’t knock the shark pants, dude,” Lance grins a charming grin and Keith is so very dead, “These are some on-point sartorial decisions right here.”

            “You know the word ‘sartorial’?” _He knows the word ‘sartorial’ that should not be this hot._

            “Don’t sound so skeptical, it makes you seem like an asshole,” Lance says cheerily.

            Shit. Keith’s brain is offline. It’s official. “Sorry. I’m –“ his words stumble to a halt as a yawn pries its way out of his throat, “Tired.”

            “What are you doing in the hall, man? And why are you geared up to climb Everest?”

            Keith glances down at his hands and resigns himself to just not pulling off any version of cool tonight. “I wouldn’t climb Everest dressed like this. There would be more gear. Definitely.”

            “Okay, not the point, let’s refocus here, my man.”

            Keith just yawns again. _God_ is he tired. “The heat’s broken in my room. I can’t sleep. ‘S like the freezer section in – “ another yawn, “Costco.”

            “How long has it been like that?” Lance asks and oh hey, his shoulder is pressed against Keith’s and he’s really, really _warm_ and Keith is so very, very _cold._

            Keith shrugs, “Three days. Campus maintenance says they’ll fix it.”

            “This is unacceptable,” Lance huffs dramatically and Keith feels a little bubble of warmth form in his stomach, “Come on, you’re staying in my room. My roommate’s been on a weed-fueled vision quest since Thursday. You can have his bed – ” Lance is halfway to standing when he pauses, apparently remembering something, “Shit.”

            “What?” Keith asks, braced for disappointment, for his neighbor suddenly regretting his offer of warmth and shelter and an honest-to-god _bed_ for the night.  

            “There’s a hell-spider on my ceiling.”

            “Oh.” Keith pauses, thinks, figures he has nothing to lose and everything to gain, and says decisively, “I got it.” And with that he’s opening Lance’s door, pulling off one of his boots and chucking it at the ceiling, nailing the spider on impact. It and the boot drop to the ground with an anti-climactic thump. Nodding to himself, satisfied with his work, Keith glances back at Lance, “We good?”

            Lance’s face does something very strange, his eyes very wide. “Sure. We’re good. Please marry me.”

            Keith finally accepts that this is definitely a hypothermia-induced dream. That’s okay. At least it’s a nice one. “Maybe when I’ve had a full night’s sleep.”

            “Sure thing, dude.”

…

            The next morning Keith wakes up curled in a bed that does not smell, look, or feel like his own and every muscle in his body tenses as his brain scrambles to remember something beyond ‘fuck campus maintenance’ and an endless loop of his brain screaming ‘what happened???’.

            “Did I offer to marry you for killing a spider for me last night?” a sleep-fuzzy voice cuts through the rising panic and Keith, against his better judgment, relaxes.

            Only to tense up all over again as he realizes that last night was very real and oh god, what did he _say_? He’s momentarily distracted by blind panic with a yawn that leads into a full-body stretch that makes him feel at least a little bit more settled in his own skin. Enough to look across the room and meet the eyes of his (beautiful) host. “I’ll still consider it if you feed me breakfast.” Keith has no idea what’s happening. His brain has apparently decided to go into permanent sleep mode, leaving his mouth in charge of this circus.

            “Um. Deal,” Lance’s eyes are getting brighter the longer he’s awake, like a computer powering up after a long while, “Uh…what’s your name?”

            How did that never come up? He should just wear a nametag the next time he’s wandering around a public place without a responsible adult. “Keith.”

            “Lance. My name’s Lance.”

            “You mentioned that.” _And I was right, it does suit you._

            “Okay.”

            A long moment of silence where they stare at each other. Finally Keith tips his head to the side and says, “So, breakfast?”

            “Breakfast,” Lance agrees, his grin is up to full power now and it’s almost unbearably bright, “Breakfast and my hand in marriage if you play your cards right.”

            “Pretty sure marriage isn’t first date material.” Keith feels unaccountably like he’s thawing out, like something inside him was frozen solid and the easy and almost-familiarity of their banter is defrosting some part of him that had been locked in place for millennia.

“Uh, excuse you,” Lance teases, “Our spider-slaying was our first date. Victory breakfast is our _second_ date, thank you very much.”

            “Can our third date be fixing my room’s heat?”

            “Uh, I can tell your heater I’m not mad, just disappointed really sternly? Beyond that my mechanical skills are nil.”

            Keith grins, a strange burst of happiness blooming in his chest, “Then I’ll just have to sleep here until they fix it.”

            Lance grins back, “Sounds like a plan.”

…

            Breakfast is as good as cafeteria food can get (Lance insists on wearing his shark pants to breakfast and Keith somehow manages to make fun of him while thinking it’s stupidly cute at the same time). But the hand in marriage is downgraded to hand-in-dating. At least for a little while.

**Author's Note:**

> You know Allura is pissed she missed out on "Klance's origin story" (her words) when she gets back. (I just love writing bff adrenaline-junkie buddies Keith and Allura)
> 
> Fic title from the poem 'Cold Morning' by Eamon Grennan.


End file.
